Polish Easter

Some people say Christmas is all about family. It is, I suppose. But in our house, if you show up to our door on Easter morning, you are family.


Of course, it's not something I'd advertise - for your sake. We are crazy. The polish family lives for Easter, and we live it up. We spend days - literally DAYS - cooking the food for the feast. This year, it was a three-day affair… slightly shorter than the time we used to allot for preparation before we discovered the polish deli who'd hand-make some of the tasty treats for us.

And when we do holidays at Chez Michel, they're always done right. Damn straight. Our table(s) - we had to make an awkward combination of three in order to seat all of our guests - were dressed in pastel clothes: pale green, chic yellow, soft white. We dressed it with our baby blue runner, found some colorful candles, laid the china out, and even dared to use my mother's beloved antique pink cherry blossom depression glass. We live for having parties.

So the table was set, the food prepared, the family - and then some - poised for the feast. Between girlfriends of cousins (I only have one girl cousin), family friends, and Jon Dias… well, it was crazy. We were actually screaming down the table to have conversations with those at the other end. Think of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” - but make it Polish.

However, the conversation decreased in correlation with the food. As we emptied the platters of food - enough to feed 60 - we could do naught but hold our bellies and sigh… and prepare for the next meal.

I think now is a good time to talk about what we eat. Get ready.

We wake up in the morning, (theoretically) go to church, and by 10:00 we're at the table for breakfast. It's called Barscht. Basically, it's soup… kind of. The table is lined with plate upon plate of meat: smoked shoulder, veal, bacon, smoke kielbasa, plane kielbasa, Easter kielbasa, you name it. We fill our bowls with huge chunks of meat, throw in some red and white horse radish (which my uncle continuously tries to get people to eat place, calling it “Polish ice cream”), pour in the “broth” (and I won't tell you how that's made… it's just nasty), and add a hardboiled egg.

But, being Polish, and to keep up with traditions, we can't just crack open a hardboiled egg and dump it in. Oh no. Instead, we have egg fights. Seriously. We parade around the table with these hard boiled eggs securely fastened in our fists, and challenge a relative to a duel. First, the challenger takes a crack - no pun intended - at the other person's egg. Then, the eggs are flipped and he-who-was-challenged then uses his egg to try and crack the challengers. Whosever egg doesn't crack, wins… Of course, that means they got to keep fighting until they find someone who beats them at egg cracking.

There are, of course, neat little trick and strategies to ensure that you are the winner - or that you are the loser in the case that you're desperate to eat. My brother and father have mastered the tactics necessary to cheat to win. Ah, competitive men…

I remember as a kid, all I wanted to do was have egg fights. Forget the food - I'd just run around the table with egg after egg trying to beat every member of my family. It hardly ever worked. And today, watching my cousin's darling kids - Michael and Abby - run around and do the same… well, it was sweet. Really sweet.

Afterwards, we had to get my cousin drunk for her 30th birthday. It's only right. Me, for one, was ready for a trip to Foxwoods… but for some odd reason everyone else thought drinking AND gambling on Easter was just sacrilegious. So to the bars we went.

We ended up at my cousin's - the birthday girl's brother's - for some beers. Joe married a fantastic woman, Kathleen, who is really just an amazing and fun person to hang out with. Their kids, Michael and Abby, are so bright and polite. And they have a turtle. Which is awesome.

And Tania - after several drinks erased her fear of ending her twenties - was a blast. I love hanging out with the family. We have fun.

So that's that. Tomorrow I get another morning to sleep in… while the boys have to go to work. Sucks for them. That's what they get for taking a week off to go golfing in Florida!